


Rare and Sweet as Cherry Wine

by stonecoldsilly



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt & Jaskier Dance, Geralt & Jaskier Drink Wine, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Midsummer, Naked Field Running, References to Drugs, winorashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:27:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26673622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/pseuds/stonecoldsilly
Summary: They prance along the riverbank as Geralt reins Roach into a halt on the other side of the water.‘Catch me if you can, Witcher!’ He cries, flushed with victory, and wheels his horse around to canter once more into the vast freedom of the woods before him.The pull of Midsummer is inescapable.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 189





	Rare and Sweet as Cherry Wine

**Author's Note:**

> (first hozier title, tick...)  
> blessings to megan and lou and nate, for no particular reason, i just love them.

...

Midsummer pulls him like the tide.

Jaskier has spent the last month wrapped in the decadence and formality of court, as entertainer and guest, every movement controlled and precise, false greetings and simpering bows echoing in marble corridors. He performs scorching sonnets to ladies-in-waiting, charms diplomats and ambassadors, each knot of admirers in the ballroom awaiting another amusing bon-mot to repeat amongst themselves, parroting examples of the famous Jaskier’s indefatigable wit, with eyes on him at all times. 

He loves it; the challenge, the attention, the adrenaline of performance a constant hum under his skin, the way the bard Jaskier can be rakish and bold in a way the Viscount de Lettenhove would never be permitted, that freedom to act outside the parameters of his station, enjoying the trappings of courtly life without the feel of the snare closing around him.

He can choose it, and that makes all the difference.

When it grows stale, the politics and masquerades and charades of emotion, he can take his leave, and no-one will die from it.

There are no dependents, no responsibilities to tie him, the yoke of thousands of people relying on his decisions for their health and happiness.

He is perfectly capable of performing his duties admirably, and was trained to it since birth, but it will be a surrender, not a victory, when finally his time runs out.

There is a countdown on this life, the vitality of his freedom, and the awareness of just how fine the sand in the hourglass is has always set him to running, desperate to reach out and _grab_ all the joy he can manage, to last him all the long years without it, taking and hoarding every delight the Continent has to offer, to see all the shades of colour in every landscape possible, before the dancing of his feet on quicksand turns to sinking.

He rides out from court on the morning of Midsummer, tugged into action by the clear blue of the dawn sky, endless promise on the horizon, leaving heartbroken maidens and pining suitors in his wake. 

He slips free of their gaze, and breathes once more in the warm air of limitless possibilities.

He spurs his stolen horse into a gallop, and cackles his glee into the world.

Jaskier rides, wild and untamed, while he still can.

He soars through the forest on a fine grey stallion, jumping fallen trees and dodging down deer tracks as nimbly as any stag, breathless with the thrill of freedom.

…

A flash of a brown horse through the trees, a glimpse of black and white racing to meet him at the corner of his eye. 

Jaskier spurs his horse faster, and that familiar whinny echoes through the woods behind them.

He grins, and the chase begins.

They dash through the trees, trail clear as day to any skilled enough to read it, and Geralt chases them, the Witcher following the bard. 

The smashing of hooves on the forest floor pounds in rhythm with his heart, and he laughs with merriment, feeling fey and mischievous with it. 

He ought to rein his horse in, greet the Witcher, feign surprise at being met so soon since he made his escape, but the surge of the reckless Midsummer madness has caught him in its grasp.

He snaps his head behind to check, and the hunter is closing fast. Jaskier does not feel like prey, though he plays at it, widening his eyes and urging his horse on as though the stag fleeing from the wolf in truth.

His horse does not tire, and he spots a fork in the path, and a glimmer of rushing water in the distance.

‘For me,’ he whispers in his horse’s ear, fondness audible at the wonder of this marvellous creature.

With only a touch from his knees, they wheel onto the river path madly, and gallop as though it were an army at their heels and not just a Witcher.

The pace increases as they approach the downward slope, Geralt only twenty paces behind them, and he can feel the muscles of powerful legs bunching, the coiled power of the horse beneath him, and never has he felt such instant connection with a creature before, to know what his rider wants without direction.

The glimmering water approaches, the river looking far wider than it did at first glance, twenty feet across or more, but their speed is enough, and Jaskier readies himself for the jump, hands flexing and gripping the reins.

He hears a shout behind him, as Geralt cries out in disbelief, and then they are flying.

Sunlight sparkles across hie eyelids, a dappled reflection of the light on rushing water, and he trusts his horse enough to close them entirely and relish in the way the air rushes past his face, freefalling in one huge leap.

They make the jump cleanly, the barest ripple at the edge of the water disturbed by the splashing of his horse’s hooves. 

Jaskier whoops with triumph, and he drop the reins entirely to pat his mad horse’s heaving sides as they slow to a trot, hooves stirring the leaves beneath them into dancing. 

The white horse rears up beneath him, a joyous whinny echoing Jaskier’s laughter, and he grips tighter with his knees and waves proudly. 

They prance along the riverbank as Geralt reins Roach into a halt on the other side of the water.

‘Catch me if you can, Witcher!’ He cries, flushed with victory, and wheels his horse around to canter once more into the vast freedom of the woods before him.

Geralt watches his quarry escape, and a faint smile is visible on his face as he spurs Roach along the riverbank to follow them once more.

...

Dusk falls as Jaskier rides into the village, the sounds of merriment and magic tugging him onwards.

He settles his wonderful steed at the inn, fondly patting his flank as he bids the horse farewell for the night, sparing no expense for the stableboy’s outstretched hand.

Excitement thrums through him, but he spares an hour to reserve a room and change from his travel worn clothes, the scratches of bark and branch on his silk doublet no matter when he can feel the pull of the wild surging through his blood and bone.

He is unadorned in finery, soft breeches and a plain silk chemise, only the simplest silver rings to catch the starlight in his hands, and then he is ready. 

The music and the crowd envelop him as soon as he steps foot out of the inn, the whirling of the stars above jolting through him like lightning.

The crowd parts for a heartbeat, and she stands alone, in a white shift. The smiling Maiden takes his hand firmly, no blush marring her cheek, and she leads him to the Crone. He bows to them both, the rising smoke and incense in the tent enough to start sending trickles of heat down his spine. The Crone nods approvingly, and hands him bread and salt on a carved wooden bowl, which he eats delicately, with all due reverence.

They do not speak a word, but beckon him to the stool before her. He sits obediently as she paints his face with charcoal, sigils for freedom and wildness adorning his brow. She eyes him silently, wizened face creased in concentration, as his leg bounces beneath the table, betraying his excitement. The last brushstroke tickles over his cheekbone, and the Crone breaks into a wide fond smile.

‘Go, child.’ She laughs, and he laughs with her, the madness thrumming deeper now, smoke and sigil and salt peeling off the last veneer of civilisation. 

He remembers himself enough to kiss their hands in blessing, the Crone and the Maiden, and then he is free, and the whole world is free with him.

The festival is in full swing, bonfires illuminating glimpses of painted faces, and witchlights soaring above them and reflecting the starshine a thousandfold.

He can feel the drumbeats of the rhythm in his chest, falling into the dance with a relief so great the joy mixes with tears on his cheek.

He whirls through the steps with laughing girls and giggling boys, and when he catches himself looking in their eyes he can see reflections of the same wildness roaring back.

They cry praises to the gods in unison, and the stamping of feet is an echo of the heartbeat of the land, the light and the darkness screaming through them all the same.

Elves glide amongst them, their steps lighter but no less powerful in the dance, the booming cry of dwarves a bass counterpoint in the symphony. Halflings tangle round their legs, shrill and shrieking their own cries of savagery.

He even spots a bruxa in the rush of revelry, and amusement prickles through him at the fear he would usually feel, were he not in this time and this place, when all anyone can feel is joy and a love so heartfelt it _burns_.

He dances closer to them provokingly, deliberate and mischievous, and then huge hands clamp around his waist, arresting his motion mid-spring.

Warmth is pressed to his back, and a low voice hisses in his ear. 

‘Caught you, little stag.’

He wriggles in delight, and turns to face his captor, baring his teeth in a grin.

Geralt snarls back, fangs glinting in the firelight. The red warpaint on his cheeks makes him look fiercer than ever, the hunter finally snaring his prey. He is wearing no armour or swords, his usual black shirt and trousers emphasising the shine of his unbound white hair. 

His pupils are dilated hugely, eyes black and roving Jaskier’s face. 

He surrenders, relaxing into Geralt’s hold, and the Witcher glares at the approaching bruxa. Jaskier can feel the warning growl he gives off reverberating through his chest, and watches idly through half-lidded eyes as she backs off. 

Joy strikes him again, the chorus of the moon above hammering into a crescendo. He tugs at Geralt until their hands are entwined, and then pulls him into the dance, whirling and stamping through the screams of joy together.

Those black eyes never leave him, and he is breathless with the feeling, stars whirling overhead and spinning all around him.

They dance for hours, until the madness recedes slightly and Jaskier leads his Witcher over to the feast, falling upon the banquet like his namesake, while Jaskier coaxes wine out of the Mother, who pinches his cheek and gives him a smack on the arse for his trouble.

She finds him a whole barrel, and he sticks his prize on top of a stack of hay, too fizzy with happiness to bother with glasses, instead turning the spigot and letting wine trickle directly into his mouth, debauched and decadent. He cranes his neck to reach more of it, a cool and bittersweet splash in his parched throat, and deep red seeps from the corner of his mouth and trickles down the line of his shirt.

He gasps for breath, and Geralt is watching him, eyes dark, not five paces away. 

He makes a show of it, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and then ducking back under for more, lapping at the sweetness with his tongue, letting it drip down his chemise and cool his fevered blood. 

His skin prickles as Geralt watches him take darting sips, and wine tips down his bared throat as he pants for air, his shirt sticking to his skin and soaked through with luxury. 

Appreciative gazes try to catch his own in the tumult, but he only looks at Geralt, who steps closer and presses the searing heat of one massive paw to the small of his back. He can feel the glide of Geralt’s thumb over his skin through his thin silks, and he cocks his head, leaning closer to that burning warmth.

He turns the spigot again, and bites his lip as Geralt tips his own mouth up to catch sweet red between his lips, eager gulps trickling messily down his chin, near enough that Jaskier can hear the harsh little swallows he makes as his throat works, the heat of his arm around Jaskier's waist keeping the bard pressed close against his side. 

Dark eyes flicker open, catching his gaze, and his thirst overwhelms him once more, mouth dry and aching. Geralt’s hand clutches tighter at his back, pulling him closer, until they stand together under the stream. Sweet red wine showers them both, mouths dipping to catch trickles of blood-red straight from the barrel. Geralt twines around him, and they take turns, liquid spilling from smiling mouths and painting their lips redder, heady with the scent of wine and the chill sliding down their skin.

Geralt watches his throat bob as he drinks, and then the barrel is forgotten, and he tastes the wine from the Witcher’s skin instead, letting his tongue dart out to follow a long trail of red and salt up that pale neck, savouring the heat of his skin and the cold splash of wine against his lips, and then Geralt dips his head to chase droplets from his collarbone, breath harsh and aching in his lungs, trembling as little moans escape him in the dark. 

Geralt kisses the taste from his mouth, wet and warm as the wine splashes over them and pools in dark puddles at their feet, forgotten.

…

The madness hums and rises in pitch once more.

They join the dance again, Geralt barking with laughter and dark eyes shining as they watch his every movement, meeting him step for step, never more than half a pace from him. Their hands entwine and he soars amongst the starlight, catching wine-stained kisses whenever the music pauses for half a beat of opportunity. 

The moon shines on madly above them, and the beat quickens and vibrates through their feet, echoing inexorably in his ears.

He screams his delight to the watching moon, and hundreds of voices join him in chorus.

The howls echo through the valley, and then the music shifts and the rhythm of the drums rises.

The dance contracts in one hushed heartbeat, and then the dancers explode outwards into the surrounding fields, running on light feet through the wild grasses, and only Geralt’s firm clasp of Jaskier’s hand prevents them from separating in the rush.

He whoops and runs, and around them clothes are strewn haphazardly on the ground. He tangles his hand in his soaked through shirt, and tears it from his skin, unable to bear the scrape of silk when he could feel the moonlight bare instead.

They race on, only haltingly breathlessly to remove the last of their clothes, and then Jaskier slips Geralt’s hand and runs, beginning the chase anew.

They dart through the fields, dodging other naked dancers on chases of their own, screams of merriment and delight rising and bubbling all around them. The thrill spurs him on, the Wolf nipping at his heels, breath hot on the back of his neck as he laughs and leads Geralt a merry dance through soft fields of barley.

Geralt allows him to have his fun for a few minutes, before tackling him around the waist and rolling them down a little hill of sweet clover. 

Jaskier giggles, firmly caught in the Witcher’s arms, and wrestles them over again, bare skin sliding together gloriously.

There is no threat here, nothing to distract the Witcher from paying attention to Jaskier, no sudden ambush to be wary of. 

It is Midsummer’s Eve, and all the world is ringing out in joy together, peals of merriment strewn from every torchlight, and there is only a love so deep and tender for all their fellow living creatures, burning so brightly all the shadows in the world are soothed, if only for one night.

Geralt pins him once more, and Jaskier twines his arm around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss, and another, chasing the taste of wine and sweat and smoke from his body until only the pure tang of death and destiny remains. 

They rut frantically together, teeth clashing and lust spilling over into harsh bites peppered over Jaskier’s throat as he arches his spine and crows his delight to the stars, warm and held fast in the arms of his beloved. 

They lose themselves in each other over and over, now soft and tender, now the pace quickens, when even a Witcher’s pulse races with the heartbeat of the world around them, and then the magic and the moon slip once more back out of the sky, enough left simmering to keep them safe until dawn, and darkness pulls them into exhausted slumber.

…

Geralt startles awake with a jerk, feeling as though his head ought to be aching terribly and wondering faintly at why it isn’t. The memories of Midsummer shine in his mind like torches, too bright to gaze at directly. He feels no aches or pains, only refreshed and awake where he ought to be at least sore from dancing for so long.

The heartbeat next to him is steady, and he summons all his nerve to roll over and peer down at Jaskier, nude and sunlit in the dawn.

The paint still winds around his face, and his pale skin is stained with the remnants of wine and grass and Geralt’s spend.

He really ought to look away and go and fetch their clothes, he thinks, unable to tear his eyes away for a moment.

Jaskier takes the opportunity to stretch a little and blink awake slowly. He meets Geralt’s gaze, and a fond smile breaks out on his face even as Geralt watches.

That same glorious wildness in his eyes is still present, even in the dawn of a new day. 

Jaskier has always been passionate, half-fey with it, always urged onwards to grab as much from life as he possibly can.

He shivers, goosebumps breaking out along his spine, and dares.

Geralt tips his head down helplessly, and Jaskier meets him halfway, and the songbirds break out into chatters of laughter around them. 

...

**Author's Note:**

> so this is based on a real night of merriment i once enjoyed with dear pals, where we tipped boxed wine over each other erotically and then ran naked together through the fields, because there is not a lot else to do in the countryside to be honest...


End file.
